“Oh, learning to dance,” she replied, “I’m to be a Merry Andrew now, you know, for the delectation of the dear public. Wicklow insists that I must have public receptions; good heavens, what an endless bore!”
Fox smiled. “He takes it seriously then, I see! We must look higher, in that case; you may as well study for the White House rôle at once.”
Margaret laughed derisively, glancing across at her husband who was leaning over Mrs. Osborne’s chair with a quite apparent air of absorption. “Look at them!” she mocked, her eyes gleaming with malicious mischief; “see the pose; Lily Osborne is playing now for a Madame d’Épinay; she discusses French literature and the philosophers. Can you imagine Wicklow as Jean Jacques? I must get him a black cloak!”
Fox laughed involuntarily, but said nothing; Margaret’s free speech sometimes offended his finer discrimination, and the notion of criticizing White to White’s wife did not coincide with his masculine code. “I heard that Mrs. Osborne won the cup at the fencing contest,” he remarked, after a moment.
“She did; Wicklow gave it, you know,” Margaret smiled sarcastically. Then she looked at him suddenly. “Where did you dine to-night?—with Allestree?”
“No, at the club. I really didn’t understand that I was expected here.”
“I must have forgotten how to write notes, or I have too much else to say to you. I’m going to let Bobby Allestree paint my portrait; you know he’s been trying to do it for years.”
Fox smiled. “I admire Allestree’s work,” he said, “but there are limitations; one can’t paint intangible sprites.”
“Do you mean to infer that I’m not human?” she retorted with a frown; “wait and see how beautiful I shall be.”
“You don’t really want compliments from me, Margaret?”